


Repeated Rhythms and Patterns

by afteriwake



Series: The Art Of Communication [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Molly Has A Crush, Molly Has Secrets, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, POV Molly, POV Molly Hooper, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach-Related, Sherlock Has a Plan, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:49:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sends Molly secret messages while he’s gone via coded postcards, and Molly finds herself living for those messages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repeated Rhythms and Patterns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IdrisSmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdrisSmith/gifts), [Amberowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberowl/gifts).



> And after a busy day full of running errands, I _finally_ get to post my first answer for Day 6 of Sherlolly Appreciation Week! This was inspired by a title prompt from **IdrisSmith** that I got a while back. It's more a one-sided Sherlolly fic, but it's a more canonical version of events than most of what I've written this week. It's also gifted to **Amberowl** who had picked this in the fic title acronym prompt claim back in November. Enjoy!

He had told her when he left after his fall that he might not be able to contact her, that he might not be able to send word on how he was doing. She had expected that, of course; there were very few who knew the truth and in order to maintain absolute secrecy there could be the barest minimum of contact, if any at all. Even if they were careful, even if they came up with a means that _seemed_ to be foolproof, there could always be someone smarter than the geniuses behind the plan who would crack it.

After all, while Sherlock and Mycroft were geniuses, they were not the only ones in the world. Moriarty had proved that well enough.

So when he had left her home, she had expected to go a very long time with no word. She had honestly expected not to hear from him until he reappeared when it was all over, or at least until right before then, before he could return officially and make himself known to the world again. So when she had gotten the postcard from the tourist trap in Hoboken, New Jersey with the note from her brother Mark she was surprised. As far as she had known, Mark was still teaching his courses at Oxford, wasn’t he? No, they were on break at the moment. Had he gone on holiday to the States and not told her? That was most peculiar. Normally he told her all about his holiday plans, at some length. And why Hoboken? Why not New York City? Or Washington D.C.? Or…well, anywhere else, to be quite frank?

And then she studied the postcard more. The closer she looked, the less sense it made. The handwriting was just _slightly_ off. He talked about things that she didn’t remember them ever talking about. He made references to things that didn’t make sense in the context of their relationship. And then it clicked: it was a coded message from Sherlock. Once she realized that, it made sense. He was letting her know he had arrived in New Jersey safely, and he was on the tail of a high ranking member of Moriarty’s organization, and he was being careful, and not to worry.

She went out to a scrapbooking store the next day and bought an album, the largest one she could find, and put the postcard in the album, positioning it in a way she could easily take the postcard out to look at the message if she wanted to, because she had the feeling she was going to get more messages like this.

And she had been right.

They arrived with some regularity, with their own sense of rhythm, coming every few weeks, almost like clockwork. The person who was supposedly sending the postcard always changed, but it was always someone she was close to and always someone who would have a reason to be on holiday; the handwriting was always a nearly identical match to their hand. It was always from some tourist locale in whatever city in whatever town in whatever state or county or country he was in. The message always sounded as though it made sense from whoever was allegedly sending it, but when she picked it apart the hidden meaning came through loud and clear.

And the messages always generally followed the same pattern: he had arrived at his next destination safely. He was following a certain person in the organization and he was either close to them or nearing them. He was being careful. Don’t worry. He would contact her again soon.

For the most part the fact that there was stability to the repeated rhythms and patterns kept her calm, made it easier to keep up the charade. But it was the times when the rhythms varied or the patterns shifted that made it hard to keep up the façade; those were the moments she tried not to panic between mail deliveries as time dragged on, waiting for word. Those were the times she had to resist the urge to dial Mycroft’s private line, beg him for word on Sherlock. She found it hard to keep herself together, to act as though all was right with her world when inside her heart and mind was a tumult.

Because despite appearances, she still loved the man. It was foolish, she knew that deep down, but that was what it was, even though she tried to deny it, even to herself. It was love, plain and simple. She would do anything for him, anything at all, without the slightest hint of hesitation. If even one of those postcards gave the slightest hint that there were complications with his mission, that all was not well, that her presence was needed immediately, she would drop everything and rush to his side under the flimsiest of pretenses. She would give him anything he asked for, anything at all: her time, her expertise…herself. She would offer herself up wholly and unconditionally, in any way he wanted her, if he would only ask.

But of course, he never would.

So she continued to save the coded messages that came with all the regularity of the ocean tide, saved them in her scrapbook that she tucked away where no one could see, not even the people she let into her life to try and fill up the hole he had left in his absence. She savoured each postcard, treasured them, knew that they were a piece of him that she got to keep close, but they were the only piece of him she could have, because he would never give himself to her, not the way she wanted. And she waited, patiently, for the day he could come home and she could see just what it was she meant to him. Where she could see if she would ever, for once in her life, get the brass ones to tell him just what he meant to her.

And maybe, just maybe, they could stop speaking in coded messages and speak plainly, and the rhythms and patterns in their relationship could shift slightly.

Maybe.


End file.
